misadventures in Florida

Let's do some math, no?

FIVE adults + TWO kidlets + EIGHT days = FIVE lessons learned. Just when you thought it was safe to go into the water...well, actually it is pretty safe, I just like saying that.

During a recent Floridian getaway, I dared to go into the deep end and emerged with lessons that will come in handy for your next family vacation.

DON'T lose your cool when you lose your shirt. Probably the second worst time to lose your bag is when you've just landed in a tropical paradise. Wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt and no deodorant (oh, the horror!). [First worst time woulda been that near mishap en route to my 20th high school reunion, but I digress.] Here's the thing: I had been using Eric's Coast Guard army green duffel bag. I'm not really one to dutifully write my name on my bag or anything--I mean, who's going to have another green army-like bag, like, an army or something? ha ha ha! Then we land, and I notice something curious. A slew of ARMY GREEN DUFFEL BAGS keep making their merry way down the little scooty thing. "No way!" I exclaimed, and that's when I noticed that the recipients of these green bags were all these crewcut dudes in camouflage. "What are the odds?" I eyeballed each guy each time they hefted their bags onto large carts, trying to discern if I could find a flip-flop or dress poking out of one of them. A half-hour later, we were in line to report our bags missing, which is when we learn about the decidedly lax attitude of the small Floridian airports. "Oh yeah, they probably just didn't have room for them because of the troops," he said. Uh, okay. Meanwhile, we had a boyfriend's family on the way, so I did my best to make small talk as I prepared myself (see? I'd be a good Army cadet, isn't their motto Be Prepared? Oh wait, that's Boy Scouts. Moving on...) for the task I was about to embark upon: rushing the nearest Target for a madcap shopping spree in 10 minutes flat. You can lose my bag, Delta, but you can't keep this girl from looking good on the road, I dare say! Nothing like a guilt-free shopping spree to put a spring in one's step too. Things were off to a good start...(and bag was restored the next day)
LESSON LEARNED: when you lose the shirt off your back, just buy another one! Oh, and never underestimate the omnipresence of the military.

DON'T be afraid of the water. Okay, so this is not a misadventure, more of an adventure on my part but I couldn't help mention it. You see, I have been known to be afraid of taking a shower after seeing Jaws (I just won't mention how long ago it was, ahem). But the combo of a few Coronas, a full moon, and great company in the form of Eric and his brother in law found this non-water girl taking a dip in the ocean...at midnight! Lil ol me! After that, I was hooked. Kayak fishing, you say? When you just saw a shark fin taking an interest in your fish that was dangling over your boat just yesterday? Let's do it, and why don't I dangle a foot over the edge, what the heck, I have another one! Come and get it, fishy fishy! Snorkeling? Where's that mask! Kayaking in huge waves when we see several fins around us? No problem, why they're just your friendly neighborhood dolphins don't you know. Not being one to do things half-assed, I kinda plunged headfirst into my fear. Whether it was the Gulf of Mexico effect, the hot sun, or just the thrill of swimming in saltwater, I'm not going to question it.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to overcome a fear (yay me!)

DO run for cover when fireworks appear. One fear conquered, one to go. Next up: Fireworks. No sweat, I thought. Maybe it was the strong Long Island Iced Teas Eric had mixed, but I was feeling quite smug as I took my position on a beach chair for our DIY fireworks show. Who me, sit back at the house closing my ears like I normally would? Not I! It's a new, brave Megan, I thought as I dug my new Target flip-flops into the sand. The first couple of fireworks were no problem. And then the third one kinda threw us for a loop. The following two minutes were a little hazy. "Shit!" "Fuck!" "Oh my god!" came out of my mouth, and next I knew I was standing behind my chair. These little doozies I uttered came courtesy of a slight glitch in the program, whereby the firework display tipped over and was starting to shoot at short intervals toward, well, US. "Get the kids!" Eric's sister yelled. Eric covered his little nephew and I scrambled to get out my seat while keeping my eyes covered as the fireshooter from hell shot one off towards my right shoulder (hello, worst fear alert!). After the madness subsided, we for some reason kept on with the madcap display. Except now, instead of sitting smugly in my little beach chair, I was crouched behind it next to Eric's nephew, telling him "yes, that's right, fireworks are fun but they can be dangerous!" as I duck for cover. Meanwhile the other nephew is crouched behind me using ME for cover. "Hold tight guys!" I announce with each firework. Yeah, let's just say that I won't be doing that again. Ever.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to re-visit a childhood fear. And to remain afraid for life.

DON'T under-estimate the sun. I'm not a foodie and don't really like to spend much time on preparing meals. But when I am tasked with an occasional dinner, as Eric and I were halfway through our trip, I then morph into a master chef of sorts where I become a little obsessed. Bread? Of course we'll have bread, but I must make it from scratch! And why stop at one loaf, I'll make three--of course, that means I'll need a 5-pound bag of flour! And yeast! I'd heard some vague notions of a store nearby so I just tried to casually saunter away before anyone noticed. "Just going to the store!" I announced. His mom called after me, "do you want to use the car?" "Oh no, I'm fine, I'm fine!" and shut the door before anyone could protest. Dum de dum, I set off on my way. Couldn't be more than a few blocks, huh? No problem. Whooshies, it's pretty hot, whew. Did I put sunscreen on? Okay, can't be far now. Hmmmm, where's this place again? Must be the other direction. A few blocks later, I stop in a nail salon for directions. They tell me that a mile down the road, there's a market. A mile, hmmm, I can do that. A little farther than I was planning, but no problem. Well, you know how you keep going and the more you go the more determined you get? A mile later, I come upon said "market" and realize it's little more than a convenience store. I ask if there's a grocery store nearby. They say there's one a mile further down the road. My little saunter becomes more of a death march. Once at the store, I'm starting to feel slightly delirious. And I realize I don't even have my phone to call anyone to pick me up. I decide to scrap everything else on my list except for the flour (all 5 pounds of it!) and yeast. And sunscreen. My death march home continues. I keep reminding myself "I'm built for endurance, I've run 14 marathons, I just hiked 30 miles a few weeks ago, I can do this" and then I resort to my last-ditch effort: singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall out loud. Twice. And thinking that a cold Corona sounds mighty nice about now. I realize that this sounds (and probably looked) absurd, and I would normally agree with you--I mean, 4 miles is nothing, right? But I had sorely underestimated the noontime heat. When I got home Eric took one look at my pale and sweaty mess that was now myself, panting as if I'd just sprinted home, and he ordered me into a shady section of the pool. Of course, the whole family decided to come back from the beach at that moment and got to see for themselves what a giant idiot I was. "Uh, Megan? Next time you take the car, okay?" Eric's brother-in-law said. A later Google search revealed that yes indeedy, I had a mild form of heat exhaustion, well, that's a new one for me to check off my list! But damn it if we didn't eat bread that night, and it's never tasted so good!
LESSON LEARNED: Florida June noontime sun is not the same as Oregonian June noontime sun. Take the car.

DO listen to your neighborhood back-cracker. A week after I returned from Florida, I declared to my dog "I've had enough of this madness!" It was hard to sit still without shooting pains radiating down my side, so I thought I'd pay a visit to my favorite back doc, who has been cracking, twisting and bending my back for the past year to soothe an ongoing problemo. "Hmm...you're all twisted here. You said you were on vacation--did you happen to lift anything heavy, like a bag?" My mind went immediately to the time that I proudly dragged our heavy kayak up the beach by myself to lock it up by the stairs, instead of waiting for someone to help me. Why? Don't ask. I have this strange fascination with a nifty little game I call "fun with strength." Need that jar opened? Here, pass 'er over. Heavy bag lifted? I got it, I got it! So as my doctor is demonstrating how to carry a heavy bag and distribute weight evenly onto my dainty discs, I'm nodding and furrowing my brow as if I'm really paying attention, meanwhile I'm thinking "nice one, Megan, way to go. Dipshit."
LESSON LEARNED: playing "fun with strength" leads to a trip to the doctor, and that's just downright embarrassing. Will you ever learn?

snowshoe misadventures

Okay, this will be a super-quick post off the top of my head, due to a massive book deadline that is currently resting on my right shoulder. However, I just couldn't let the National Snowshoe Championships go by (in my neck of the woods, no less, at Mount Hood) without at least chiming in with some tips, learned the hard way at the recent Romp to Stomp snowshoe race held on the very same grounds where the national champs are trampling the ground as I type.

When I entered my first snowshoe race, in 2001, I came across the finish line in second place.

It was a fluke.

In the years since, I have flailed, tripped, sank in too deep, gotten unbuckled, and most of all have cursed my snowshoes. And my latest snowshoe experience at the Romp to Stomp was no exception. So heed my top three tips before you strap in:

1. Warm up beforehand. I'm not one of those runners who you see running around before a race to "warm up." I mean, that's what the first few miles is for, right? But I learned this time around, as I stood around and chatted to a friend while others jumped up and down to warm up and I laughed at them, that during snowshoe races it's a good idea to get your blood pumping beforehand. Especially if you have cold feet that turn white just looking at the snow like I do. I think that my feet were just starting to thaw out by the time I crossed the finish line.
Lesson learned: It's tough to run when you can't feel your feet.

2. Save the best for last. When the race started, I got going slowly like I usually do. And then I realized that I wasn't really going to make any headway on the people in front of me. And furthermore, I kinda didn't care. I mean, for the first time I didn't have anyone crunch crunch crunching behind me as I valiantly tried to stay ahead of them. I decided instead to go with the flow and actually take my time, so I slowed down to a walk and enjoyed the view of Mount Hood instead of gasping for air like I usually do. Instead of setting my sights on the person in front of me, trying to pass her, I hoped she would keep up her pace so I wouldn't have to pass her. My mission was to bring up the rear, and I succeeded.
Lesson learned: the view (and lack of pressure) is better at the back of the pack. Bonus: you can twirl, attempt to moonwalk, and dance through the finish line and not worry that anyone is going to pass you!

3. If you're going to come in last, at least carpool with the winner. Not only did I have zero pressure out there, and barely break a sweat because I was walking half the time, but I actually got to reap the rewards of winning vicariously through my carpooling buddy, Coop. When they announced his name as the winner and they announced he was going to be at the national snowshoe championships, heads swiveled to get a glimpse of him, and I just nodded as if to say, "yeah, that's right, I'm friends with THAT guy. He'll be signing autographs later."
Lesson learned: if you're going to flail, there's no shame in pairing up with a winner to gain coolness cred. So I'm taking credit for his success, what's your point?

That's all I got, kids, back to the grind...hope everyone had fun at the race and furthermore, I hope the snow is over so I DON'T have to put on a snowshoe again for another year.

Megan

computer misadventures, part three

You know that children's book, Fortunately? That's been the story of the computer/Internet rollercoaster that is my life lately. In case you don't know the book, here's a little practice round for ya:

FORTUNATELY...I found the book on-line to make sure I hadn't been imagining it.

UNFORTUNATELY... I discovered that the book author was Remy something, which reminded me of someone who dumped me unceremoniously many years ago.

FORTUNATELY...I couldn't care less about that person anymore for a variety of reasons I won't go into!

Okay, so you're warmed up. Let's see...when I last left off (see past computer misadventures posts for a full recap of my year of woes), my computer was actually working again. My internet was now the object of my technical obsession, because Integra was taking over a month to actually set it up. After two hours of fiddling around, the Integra dude said that Qwest had to come over a second time to "drop the line" whatever that means. I know, I know, it's way confusing. Try being in my position! Try being your own IT person for the past eight years when your little brain is really not equipped for such details! Okay, shaking it off, shaking it off.

Let's do this thing, shall we? Follow along. Don't be timid.

FORTUNATELY...Qwest came over and this time did not scare me half to death thinking it was a burglar because I was prepared and they fixed whatever needed fixing on the outside of my house yay

UNFORTUNATELY...When the Integra guy came over for the second time that next week, he stayed for two hours and then said it wasn't working because Qwest had to fix something argh

FORTUNATELY...Eric was working at home that day so he took care of everything as I stormed out taking the dog "on a walk" and muttering to myself while shaking my fist in the air yessss

UNFORTUNATELY...Integra told me that Qwest needed to have access to my place and kept calling me for days to arrange it and "keep me posted" yet after waiting a week I heard some rustling and went outside to see the Qwest woman fiddling with the wiring, and said she didn't need access to my house after all curses to you Integra!

FORTUNATELY...well there is no fortunately here but consider this an interlude do you want some hold music with that because I have them practically committed to memory by now

UNFORTUNATELY...during the madness, I was innocently walking to my desk and tripped--with coffee in hand--and spilled it all over my favoritest computer ever my MacBook Air so I tried drying it off with a hair dryer and everything like you hear to do and everything was just dandy but then all of a sudden my "e" button wouldn't work and then it seeped into other buttons so I had to book an appointment with the Apple Store but since my Sony Vaio wouldn't work because it never does when I need it in a crisis I had to book it on my Mac and when it asked for "explanation" of the problem I had to figure out how to discuss my problem but had no c or e button shikies

FORTUNATELY...I had a moment of genius when I figured out how to get around the keys I couldn't use and instead managed to tentatively type "liquid spill" damn I'm good

UNFORTUNATELY...a different Integra guy came over this time and I suddenly had a flash-back to the time we had a peeping Tom our senior year in college because of the way he stood there woodenly in the driveway looking at the house (which still stands as my scariest moment back in '92) and then when I came outside to see if he was going to come in he just stared at me and didn't move and it kinda creeped me out and then he stayed two hours because for some reason that's how long they like to stick around and then he declared that this time the problem was my router and he left me with this 10-page booklet complete with codes and numbers that I had to use to "configure" or whatever oh good god don't do this to me Integra

FORTUNATELY...I suppose I had used up all my energy ranting to myself on the drive to the Apple store that by the time I got to the Genius Bar I was just dazed and when the Genius guy told me it would cost $750 to fix my computer and they'd have it for a week I just said "okay" and zoned out as he did the paperwork because secretly I had been worried I'd need to buy a whole new computer and I couldn't afford another MacBook Air and then I guess because I took the news so well and "seemed like a nice person" (which made me laugh because I'm sure the Integra guy was not saying the same thing to his compadres) and "you seem to have had a lot of computer struggles lately" (wow they are geniuses, he could just see it in my eyes!) he said that he decided that they would fix it for free and then I cried and told him I loved Apple and furthermore could I hug him

UNFORTUNATELY...there is no unfortunately here because don't you understand Apple decided to fix my problem for no cost which is unreal and I love them and we don't need hold music because that would just distract from how much I love Apple

FORTUNATELY...I called Comcast and they came over within a week and everything has worked perfectly since then now I also love Comcast mwha to Comcast let me give you a noogie there you go you little devil you

UNFORTUNATELY...while my Mac has been behaving beautifully as only a Mac would since I got it back, suddenly it is making me re-set everything including my Mail so I call Apple and strangely I could barely understand the Apple chick's words because she just seemed to be going so slow and I guess being my own IT person all these years really DOES mean I know a little about computers because I kept having to backtrack and wait for her to catch up to me and then she said it was an Earthlink deal since that's who I have my mail with which meant I have to call Earthlink/India, the source of my original Internet woes in the first place and I was dreading this big-time eekazoid

FORTUNATELY...I finally got up the nerve to call, and realized that after having dealt with Earthlink for so long I surprised myself by feeling right at home with his quick-pace-and-thick-accent and "i as in Indias" and he set up my mail no problem and I realized that having success with Earthlink was bringing my Internet/computer woes full circle and I came to the conclusion that when it comes to me and technology, it really DOES take a village (in this case, a mighty triad of Earthlink, Comcast, and Apple) hooray for mighty triads we like mighty triads

UNFORTUNATELY...Integra keeps sending me bills, priority mail that I have to pick up at the post office, calling me about customer surveys, and generally annoying me for another week which officially makes it two months of INTEGRA HELL when they never could even set up my stuff talk to the hand, Integra, talk to the hand

FORTUNATELY...the last time, after they sent me a bill for $1,400 for disconnecting my service before my contract was up and I called and then they realized that it was a mistake I told them to just delete any record of me ever I think they may have FINALLY gotten the point and in the past two weeks my MacBook Air and Comcast service have been happy as clams together and I even catch them smooching in the corner sometime when they think I'm not looking so life is good for reals

The End.

third column up in The Oregonian

When I first mentioned that I had a shiny new Misadventures column in The Oregonian, I mentioned that it would be published "occasionally." What does that exactly mean, you might ask? I really have no clue myself. Only that so far, I had two columns published in August back to back, and then one just appeared out of nowhere during the holidays. It's kind of like a Where's Waldo of columns, you never know when I will appear. I like to be mysterious I suppose.

Anyoldhow, here it 'tis...(the picture doesn't really relate but I thought it was cool, taken in my front yard during the recent snowstorm, and no I don't really like snowshoeing either so I guess it is kinda related but that's a story for another day).

Misadventures of Snowboarding

What I’m about to say is incredibly uncool. Take a seat, remove hot liquids from the vicinity of your mouth to thereby ward off accidental spit-takes, and listen up.
I Don’t. Like. Snowboarding.
There, I said it. Now this isn’t the story of “oh, I took a beginning snowboarding class and fell on my butt too many times and I decided that I didn’t like it.” I actually even own my own snowboard (green, with a skull pattern, if you must know). But after my last outing on a frigid February, I decided that enough was enough.
Allow me to elaborate on what I like to call my Circle of Hell.

1. It hurts, part one. The pain begins before you even get out of your car. Snowboard boots—while blissfully pliant in comparison to ski boots, or at least it seems so, I haven’t actually set foot in ski boot for years—are still much akin to firmly attaching a vice to your dainty toes. I get out of my car to give myself enough room to shove said foot in boot, and have to take my gloves off to do so. And, since it’s freezing out, results in cold hands and shoved feet. Not pleasant. I can’t wait to get my circulation moving by getting to the ski lift already.
2. Waiting is the hardest part. For those of you who have snowboarded before, you’ll understand the unique—one might even say contorted—positioning of one’s body as you wait in line for the ski lift. And it’s while waiting in line at the ski lift that I always realize what my true problem is with the sport. I’m just not the type of girl who will talk about powder with a gleam in her eye. I will never talk about how many times I have been on the slopes this season (well, come to think of it, maybe I would, seeing at it’s a grand total of 2 when I’m really going for it). That’s why I always feel like every time I set board on the slope I’m starting from scratch. And why, when I’m standing there in my contorted position, left leg strapped in the board and pointed to the right, right foot tagging along and trying to balance so I don’t fall and make a fool of myself, it’s the only time I actually envy skiers with their two handy poles. While I’m chanting inwardly to myself the “don’t fall, you can do it” mantra, a 20-something boarder strikes up a conversation about the powder falling that day (apparently, it’s “sick” or something, or at least he says). My 38-year-old self nods and smiles and continues concentrating on aforementioned not falling. I’m done with the conversation but he’s not. “So, is your snowboard new?” “Nope, I’ve had it about five years,” I reply. “No way! Because your sticker is still on the bottom of it, so I thought it was new!” “I just don’t snowboard that often,” I reply. I can’t wait to get on the ski lift already and not have to focus on balancing and/or speak with Boarder Dudes.
3. It hurts, part two. When we finally get on the ski lift, it’s so cold that I immediately pull my hat way over my head. I look at my boyfriend Eric who is beside me and I can barely see any part of his head either. “Hey,” I say. “Hey,” he responds. “My face is numb.” “I can’t feel my toes!” “Are we having fun yet?” We start laughing hysterically the whole way up because we’re so freezing. So much so that the stranger next to us asks if we’re okay. I can’t wait to get off this ski lift already.

4. Wait…is that a black diamond? Then, of course, the real thing begins. After scooting off the ski lift (another concentration-builder whereby I’m repeating my mantra of “don’t fall, don’t fall”), we slide on over to the first slope which my boyfriend assures me is only a blue square. I’d prefer green myself—a fitting color, as I’m feeling pretty green—but I just go along with the flow. I’m looking forward to getting circulation back in my toes, anyway. The problem is, there is a thick fog that day. Come to think of it, there was a thick fog the day before, when I heard that a fellow snowboarder was killed when he was sitting on the ground because someone crashed into him and couldn’t see him due to the fog. Right on that same slope, now that I really ponder the whole story. For some reason, I always tend to go on adventures right after a tragedy has occurred. Which is really not a good idea, because I’m convinced that everyone coming up from behind me is going to barrel into me, where I’ll knock my head on the ground and be a goner. Best to play it safe, I think, and safe for me right then is to, well, do the snowplow version with skis on a board. You know, where I don’t actually carve any turns. This way, I won’t take anyone by surprise with an unexpected move, thereby limiting my chances of aforementioned barreling. Let’s just say it made for an unnerving trip, and as much as I know that the people in front have the rightaway, I can’t help but keep looking over my shoulder at what I’m sure is my impending doom (this is where my healthy imagination does a disservice). By the time I’ve slowly worked my way down the slope, my calves are killing me from trying to hold myself in snowplow position. I can’t wait to get down the hill.

5. Circle of Hell, take two. But when I finally get down the hill, that only means I’m standing in the ski lift line again, shuffling along and trying not to fall while also trying to avoid conversations that involve the word “powder” (or even worse, the cringe-inducing “pow-pow”). After a couple cyclings through the Circle of Hell, I was quite content to sit out the rest of the day in the comfy confines of the beer hall, toasting myself by the fire and enjoying an IPA.
One might deduce that I had hung up my snowboard for good after this trip. But that’s just the thing—I never do learn my lessons. So you’ll probably see me this year on Mount Hood—I’ll be the one with the shiny green board, struggling with concentration. Just steer clear (please hold the barreling into me), and wave. When you’re done, I’ll reward you with a warmed seat that I’ve been saving for you, and an IPA.

all I want for Christmas is a computer AND Internet to work at the same time!

Let's see...last I left off in computer woes, I was typing merrily away on my brand-new MacBook Air, oblivious to the troubles ahead (see first computer misadventures post for a year-long timeline of my previous mishaps). That lasted, oh, about a month. Now let's pick up where we left off. And in the spirit of things, may I provide a 12 days of Christmas theme? Sing along, won't you?

On the 12th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A proble-e-eh-m with my Internet serviiiice.
We pick up this tale around mid-November, when my Internet service starts to work intermittently. I try the magical "reboot" technique on my computer, modem, AND router before calling the dreaded Earthlink support. I remember fondly when it was a bunch of geeky California tech guys on the other line, circa 1997-2002ish, but now let's just say that the combo of having Internet problems and trying to decipher a thick Indian accent doesn't put one in the happy holiday spirit.

On the 11th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Many phone calls to India-aaaaa.
Two weeks later, I'm still having problems. By the time the Earthlink tech people start talking about turning on and off the modem and the router, rebooting them, turning on and off my computer, I'm reduced to silent sobbing. Hey, don't laugh. If you had to do this twice a week you would cry too. Besides, that's why I work in the comfort of my own home, so I can cry as much as I want. But where was I...oh yes. Adding to the problem this time is since I have a PC AND a Mac I never know what to do with the automated system thingie when it says "please press 1 for Mac, 2 for PC." I'd have to make a rash decision. "Will my Sony behave long enough for me to get through this call? Because my Mac is out of battery life, and can't reach the modem if I have it plugged into the outlet." And of course I choose the wrong button several times, because I'm me.

On the 10th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A brain full of useless know-leeeedge.
By the end of November, many calls to Earthlink later, I can now memorize the IP addresses and various commands and codes they give me by heart. As they start in with the "1.62.86....p as in paul, c as in charlie..." I'm already typing it before they have finished. And sobbing quietly to myself.

On the 9th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: One final phone call to Indi-aa.
After three weeks of problems, I've given up. I dial one last call to Earthlink. When I explain that I want to cancel my service, the guy asks, "have you spoken with our technical service?" My reply is breathless and not exactly in full sentences as I shuffle toward the nearest coffee shop to use their wireless. "Yes, I've spoken to them. Hours. Hours I've wasted. Hours. You don't understand. I can't do it anymore. I WON'T do it. Can't. Won't. No. Can't." I think he's afraid of me, so he agrees to cancel my service pronto.

On the 8th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: One friendly neighbor named Ki-kiiiiii.
Since I oh-so wisely canceled my Internet service in a huff without any backup plan, I now have to schlep my computer to and from various neighborhood coffee shops, vying for a good spot next to an outlet (it usually takes three coffee shops before I find a good spot, luckily I live in coffee-capital Portland). My friendly neighbor Kiki saw me in one of my crazed treks and generously gives me his wireless password to use at home until mine is up and running. Yay for Kiki!

On the 7th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Another Internet service provid-errrrrr.
Great, so now all I have to do is find another Internet service and I'm set. I'm trying to decide between Comcast and Integra, which is a local company, and I go with Integra strictly because on its website it states "we're not only in your country, we're right in your neighborhood." I wanted to cry with happiness, because it was just what I was looking for--you mean, I'd be speaking with someone who speaks native English? AND lives in Portland? Cool!

On the 6th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Four faxes, three pho-oone calls, and two annoying e-maaails.
You know when I said I liked the idea that Integra was right in your neighborhood? Well, it became a little too close for comfort. First, I had to fax all these papers over--which, since I didn't have Internet service, entailed going to a coffee shop (this was pre-Kiki's kindness), downloading an e-mail, returning home to print it out, and then faxing it. So I did it. Thing is, I just got this new fax machine, and I wasn't sure if I was supposed to fax the page text-side up or down, and apparently I guessed wrong. Every afternoon for FOUR DAYS, I'd receive a long-winded jovial call from my friendly neighborhood Internet guy who went on and on about how he didn't get my fax (and with my phone, I don't know how to erase messages until AFTER I've listened to the whole damn thing). I tried faxing it again from my machine. He'd call. I faxed from the copy shop. He called. I finally called him back and said "listen, I'm going to try this ONE MORE TIME and if it doesn't go through I'm done. Finished! And by the way, PLEASE STOP CALLING ME!" Yes, now I've officially scared off not one but two Internet companies.

On the 5th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A MacBook Air that wi-iiil not wo-ooork!
Dateline: early December. My faxes and paperwork are in with Integra, I'm waiting the god-only-knows-why-so-long 20 days for service to arrive, and suddenly my brand-new MacBook Air decides it's going to go keyboard up. One day before I leave for a week-long vacation. I calmly book an appointment with the Genius Bar at the Apple Store in the mall. I'm dodging screaming kids who are waiting in line to sit on Santa's lap, and cringing when I see a row of small children caroling, and generally shooting evil looks at moms who are dressed in matching red sweaters with their kids as I trudge toward the Apple Store when I get a phone call. "Hi there, Megan, it's Integra! We just have a few questions for you before we get your service ready, is now a good time?" I grumble "uh yeah." The too-chirpy woman on the phone goes through all these detailed questions that I don't understand (I mean, if I knew the difference between a static and roaming IP address or whatever I'd probably just be setting it up myself, now, wouldn't I?). Toward the end of the conversation, I veer toward Ann Taylor Loft for some retail therapy as I listen to her chirp on. They're just too..Portland for me. I mean, I know I didn't want a company that's calling from India, but I also didn't want to be fielding calls from my friendly neighborhood Internet guy every day either with another form or question.

On the 4th Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: Schlepping my Sony Vaio on five fliiiii-iiiights!
The next day, I leave for a week-long vacation. Of course, my MacBook Air is sitting at the computer hospital still because apparently it needs a new hard drive. Sure, that makes perfect sense seeing as I've owned the thing for only two months! Which means that I have schlep my heavy Sony Vaio which doesn't fit handily into my usual carry-on like my sleek MacBook, and feels super-clunky in comparison. Add to this fact that I have no less than FIVE flights during this trip--Portland to Minneapolis to Detroit to Atlanta to Minneapolis to Portland. As soon as I land from my first flight in Minneapolis, I check my cell phone and see a message. It's the Mac store, telling me chirpily that my Mac is ready for me back in Portland. Oy!

On the 3rd Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A Sony that won't turn ooooon!
My Sony has an evil sense of humor and sometimes waits until it knows I'm going to crack before it decides to act. On the first day of my trip, I tried to do some work I desperately needed to finish that morning (since I'd missed a day of work dealing with my computer woes) only to realize it wasn't going to turn on. After sobbing not-so-silently right then and there (you see, the Sony really is a smart one, it knew my breaking point for prime tears right on the spot!), I closed the computer and decided to cease and desist from any and all computers for a few days. Of course, once I was calm the Sony turned on just like a charm. Bastard.

On the 2nd Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: The Qwest guy scaring me half to deaaaath.
In order to get my new Internet hooked up, the phone company first had to come out and do something to my outside phone wiring. But I didn't realize this. The morning after I return from vacation, my boyfriend Eric has just left the house for work when the doorbell rings. I'm still in my bathrobe if you must know so I'm not about to answer the door. Usually it's the mailman or UPS guy who will ring to let me know he's leaving a package. But the ringing keeps persisting. I can hear someone standing on the front porch. Then I realize--it's a burglar! He's seen Eric leave and is ringing to check if anyone else is home before picking the lock and entering. [Before you think I'm completely paranoid, this scenario actually did happen to us last year, which--talk about coming full circle--actually resulted in my year of computer woes because they stole my beloved computer which forced me to buy my Sony, but I totally digress!] So picture this scene: I'm downstairs, steps away from the door, in my bathrobe, frozen in position and thinking a gun-wielding burglar is about to break in (hello, worst fear!). I tiptoe to the door and quietly lock the bolt in place, thinking that if he does pick the lock at least it might take longer. Then I tiptoe back to the alarm system and turn it on so at least that might scare him away. And then I make a break for it upstairs where I peek out the window from my office to see...a Qwest truck. I sheepishly get dressed, go outside and talk to the Qwest guy, who had just rung the bell out of courtesy to let me know he's working in my side yard. Oops.

On the 1st Day of Christmas, My Misadventures Gave to Me: A faulty Internet system once agaaaaain.
The next day the Integra guy comes over, and two hours later he declares that he can't get the modem to work. A few more phone calls later from Integra, another Qwest visit, and I'm waiting for The Next Step. Will 2009 be my year free of computer problems? We shall see. In the meantime, I'm once again happily typing on my MacBook Air while using Kiki's Internet and fielding two calls a day from Integra who are keeping me informed of every step in this never-ending process. Stay tuned.

misadventures in Florida

Have you ever traveled somewhere and felt like you've landed in an episode of the Twilight Zone? Me too. In fact, it just happened to me last week while in Florida for a conference. I'd only been to Florida a handful of times: the obligatory Clearwater Beach spring break, a couple-a work trips to Orlando. You know, the usual. When I think of Florida, I mainly think of Key West, as I go there every two years on a family getaway. Of course, after this excursion to Tampa last week I realized that viewing Florida through the Key West lens is akin to thinking that you've gotten the feel of New York state if you've ever walked in midtown Manhattan.

In the world of journalism, three is the magic number. Three examples of a trend means you can legitimately call it as such, for instance. So consider, if you will, these three pieces of evidence which shall prove beyond a reasonable doubt that either someone was filming me for an episode of Candid Camera, or that Florida and Megan just don't mix well.

1. My plane lands in Miami, and the typical mayhem ensues as people whip off their seatbelts and stand up, craning their neck to the side because of the overhead bins. This always makes me laugh, as if standing up immediately is really going to get you out of the plane that much faster. Even though the plane has stopped, we're still on the runway and haven't reached our gate, so the flight attendant nicely asks everyone to take their seat. Everyone does, except for two guys who remain standing in the aisle a few rows ahead of me. The flight attendant, in a slightly icier tone, reminds them that everyone needs to take a seat, please. That just leaves one guy standing. Finally, the flight attendant becomes downright testy, as she walks up to the guy and says "are you not wondering why everyone else is sitting down? Please take your seat!" Finally, that does the trick, as the guy looks for an empty seat (who knows where he originally came from, but apparently it was too far back in the plane for his liking) and focuses on the empty middle seat beside me of course. He squeezes himself past my lap and sits, leaning into me. When we finally do get to our gate, and the seatbelt sign comes off, he immediately whips his off, stands up, and starts moving toward the aisle. There isn't any room for him to do so, since, well, I'm sitting there, so I decide I can either push him back or just get out of his way. I opt for the latter and stand in the aisle behind our row so he can get by. Just as I'm puzzling over what this guy's deal is, though, and shaking my head at another fellow across the way who has witnessed this and is laughing with me, an older guy starts yelling at me in a thick accent because apparently I'm in his way and he can't get to his bag. Meanwhile, no one has even started moving off the plane, so it's not like I'm preventing anyone from really getting anywhere. Was I missing something? I felt like I had just landed in a different country, where I didn't know the proper etiquette for getting off the plane.
Once we have successfully de-planed as they call it in the airline biz, I decide a margarita sounds delightful as I wait for my next flight to Tampa. Of course, I sit there for what seems like 20 minutes while the servers sit around and fold napkins and chat, and finally I ask the bartender if I can order from him, and he says I need to wait for the server. I'm used to super-slow service in the laid-back land of Portland, but this takes the cake. Once a margarita is finally placed in front of me, I call my boyfriend and whisper to him that something weird is going on with Miami. Little did I realize the madness had only begun.

2. I arrive at my hotel in Tampa, and the manager tells me that my room is a two-bedroom suite but could I check out of the room tomorrow and he'll move me to a smaller one. No problem. When I enter the room, I'm immediately relieved that I'm only going to be here one night. It's a two-bedroom, two-bathroom suite, which sounds luxurious but really just ends up being creepy. I don't know about you, but I prefer smaller spaces in which to conduct my sleeping. I don't like several rooms, and I certainly don't like empty extra bedrooms. You see, I have a big imagination. And I can also freak myself out pretty easily. My childhood friend, Andy, and I used to play this game where one of us would sit in her bedroom with the lights off and the other one would take their time before bursting into one of the two entrances to her bedroom (that was the kicker, that you didn't know from where the bursting would commence). Being in this room was like playing that game, only there wasn't anyone in on it to laugh with. Throughout my first sleepless night, I kept imagining that I'd open my bedroom door to see the other bedroom door wide open, or to see a light from underneath the door. I kept my door my locked and the bathroom light on.
The next morning, I happily rolled my luggage to the front desk, relieved to be rid of my spooky room. That afternoon when I returned at my hotel to check back in after a day of sightseeing, though, they mysteriously gave me the exact same room number. Seems that the hotel was now booked solid and that was the only one left. It was like Hotel Florida...you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave, mwha ha ha ha. I put on a brave face and entered the elevator, luggage in tow, to the 15th floor once again. But even if you think I've been over-reacting at my too-big room, you have to admit, there's something creepy about this hallway (pictured here, with my room door at the end of the hallway). Something, well, Shining-esque about it. I mean, c'mon, LOOK at it!
I could have asked to change rooms, but I didn't want to jinx anything. I mean, what if my new room was creepier than my first one? So I decided to befriend the room, and just locked my bedroom door every night and that was that. But I still can't figure out some things. Like why every time I took a shower, I would hear a sound like a doorbell. The first time this happened, I thought there was someone at the door, and I even got out to check, thinking I'd see the cleaning crew on the other end of the peephole. No one was there. The next morning, I thought it might be an alarm, although since I showered at different times of the day that didn't make sense either. My third explanation was that maybe this was a new Green Hotel system, where they'd sound an alarm if you're taking up too much water, but I couldn't find any notecards backing up this fact. Okay, now you're going to think I'm making this up, but I also heard voices, like a radio that would cut in and out every morning, except I unplugged the radio and it still happened.
Let's just say that when it came time for me to roll my luggage out of there for good, I wasn't sad to go. (And I was relieved that unlike Hotel California, they let me check out...AND leave!)

3. The final piece of evidence that Florida is messing with me has to do with politics. I'm not a super-political person by nature. I vote Democratic, I feel strongly on certain issues, but I don't relish getting into debates about it. After all, I've lived in liberal bubbles of NYC and Portland for the past 16 years, so I rarely meet anyone who doesn't feel the same way I do. When I walk down my street to the post office or the bank, there are people selling Obama t-shirts and buttons. The Obama volunteer headquarters are three blocks away from my house. It's All Blue, All The Time around here. But while walking around Tampa, I actually saw my first McCain sign. And then another. And then an entire neighborhood filled with them. While out with some old friends that night, I commented on it...and then realized that they're Republican and are so pro-life that they believe Roe v. Wade should be reversed, and they'd vote for a candidate strictly on the pro-life issue. This took me by such surprise, seeing as these are intelligent, funny, interesting, and cool guys, that I just assumed they would be like-minded. I was so caught off-guard that I couldn't even formulate an argument; instead, I was like a deer in headlights--a crying deer, it turns out, because I had to excuse myself and go to the bathroom for some deep breaths after the tears started rolling (okay, laugh if you wish, I've never been accused of being non-emotional). I became paranoid--I mean, if these cool guys could think this way, who else does? My mind raced back to my 20th year high school reunion this summer, and I wondered, oh my God, is X Republican? Is Y pro-life? Who ELSE is on the "other" side? The next day, determined to escape Tampa, I rented a car and went to St. Petersburg, where I walked up and down the main drag trying to find the Obama headquarters, so I could proudly display an Obama button. If anything, it made me less complacent in my liberal bubble, and more determined to paint the country blue on Tuesday.

Let's see...plane-pushers, haunted hotel rooms, and right-wingers? I think I'll stick to Key West or bust when it comes to the Sunshine State next time, thanksabunch.

Megan

misadventures at the dog shelter

In my 38 years, I've never been fired from a job. Well, okay, that's not exactly true. There was that one stint as a server at my freshman-year dorm cafeteria at Indiana U., but I can explain that. I mean, part of the required dress was a hairnet for God's sake! I'd try and perch it just over my ponytail so I was technically wearing it without having it draped over my entire 'do (keep in mind, this was the 80s in the big hairsprayed bangs era), and managed to squeak my way through as long as the manager didn't see me. I loved when I was assigned the dish duty instead of the front line, where I could silently make my $4.50 an hour alone with the dishwasher rather than in front of my collegemates. I didn't last long at the job (I think my downfall was picking and choosing which weekend shifts I would show up to).

What in tarnation am I going on about this experience for, when it happened nearly 20 years ago? Because I was recently axed as a volunteer at the local dog shelter. My downfall, it seems, is that I just can't keep my mouth shut. It's something that my friend Mike once commented upon. "Megan? You know that little man we all have in our brain which stops thoughts from coming out of our mouths? I think yours is asleep sometimes!" I thought he was being generous. "A man in our brain? What man? We have a man? I don't think I have one!" was my response.

You see, when I see people who take themselves seriously, I love to mess with them. I think of it as a sport.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. The madness began a year ago, when I had a run-in with what I call one of the Mini Me volunteers (one of the volunteers who spends more than once or twice a week at the shelter and are wannabe staffers). I'd noticed this fellow before, and there was something about him that bugged me. You know the type, who is around all the time and keeps close tabs on what others are doing. I'm more of the type that follows the rules that make sense to me, and try and bypass others that seem silly, and otherwise don't pay attention to what others are doing because it's not my business. That's how I came across, let's call him Stan the Man, while taking a dog out the wrong door. You see, it made sense to take a shortcut at that particular time, since I knew that my fellow volunteers wouldn't be there for another hour, but Stan the Man caught me in the act. "Why, this is not an exit!" he exclaimed. "Oh I know!" I responded and continued on my way. As he watched me, I gave a little wave. Stan the Man wasn't pleased. He looked up my name and sent an e-mail to our volunteer coordinator saying I was flouting the rules and generally running amok. The volunteer coordinator made the mistake of forwarding this tirade to me, whereupon I fixated upon the words "dog-walking Nazi." Now I don't know about you, but the casual use of the word Nazi doesn't sit well with me. So let's just say that Stan the Man and I never really saw eye-to-eye. I was reprimanded, duly noted that I should go out the right doors from now on or else, and went on my merry way. Not before having a good chuckle with my fellow Tuesday nighters (all of whom are the more "regular" volunteers who give 2-3 hours of their time per week).

When I next saw Stan the Man, I couldn't help myself. "Hello, I wanted to introduce myself, I'm Megan McMorris--oh, but you already know that, because you looked me up and called me a dog-walking Nazi. I have a little tip for ya big guy. You might want to stay away from Tuesday nights because I'm crazy." To prove my point, when I would encounter him after that I would bark, talk to myself, meow, and generally make a fool of myself so he'd want to run away with his tail between his legs. I wished I could perfect the art of my head spinning around, but I just end up with a crick in my neck. What can I say, I amused myself.

Fast forward many Tuesday nights later, many happy tail-wagging dogs being walked, and I happened to go to a group outing with some staff and volunteers. Big mistake. This time, there was a staff member there (let's call him Dan the Dude), and he was bragging about how he yells at volunteers and "runs a tight ship" during the day. As I was closing in on my third year at the shelter, I had noticed an interesting trend--staffers being rude to volunteers. It had made others quit, but I was mainly amused by it because it's like dealing with small-town cops: a case where you're surrounded by underpaid, overworked employees who take it out on the little people to exert any ounce of control they have. Well, I thought it would be splendid to mess with this guy. "Why, Dan the Dude, you wouldn't like to work with me then. Go out through the in door? Absolutely! Let dogs touch noses? Bring it on! I break ALL the rules!" Little did I realize, there were other Mini Me's and staff members who were pricking up their ears and raising their hackles during our little discussion. I drove home that night, thinking "well, I'm glad I don't work with that guy!" and thought that would be the end of it. My mistake again. Instead, the staffers and Mini Me's reported me as the Rogue Volunteer Who Breaks The Rules. So as I was obliviously typing away at my computer a couple weeks ago, I receive an e-mail that suggests I should destroy my security badge immediately. (That part made me laugh, what was I going to do, sneak in and clean up dog poop under cover of the night?)

So there you have it. I was canned. Now my friendly fellow Tuesday nighters, none of whom were even consulted for their opinion on the matter, are left to deal with Stan the Man and Dan the Dude by themselves. (I advised them to say "yes sir" and click their heels when being treated rudely.)

What have I learned from this, one might ask? I haven't yet figured it out, except that when you mess with small-town cop-type people they're likely to bring out their big guns. In the meantime, though, I'm finding some fun uses for my lovely turquoise volunteer apron, which in this picture is donning my yellow Lab mix, Luey. I'm also wondering if it might make a nice Halloween costume--I'd been thinking about going as a Geek Squad chick, since I practically felt like a part of the crew during my computer woes, but this makes a nice alternative. The only thing is, to really complete the part of a dog-shelter volunteer, I'd have to have people dress as staffers to literally trod on my back. I've been having some back pain recently, though, so I don't know if that's wise. Then again, I've never been accused of being wise.


Megan